


The Latest Dream I Ever Dreamnt

by Sunshineditty



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magic, Crack, F/M, Gen, M/M, Multi, Other, Sex Magic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-04
Updated: 2015-11-29
Packaged: 2017-11-23 14:45:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,491
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/623326
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sunshineditty/pseuds/Sunshineditty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Sex magic is still magic, Scott. I just needed to make sure my Anchor could reach me through mind, body, and spirit."<br/>"And did...they?" Scott reached across the wood separating them and pushed back the hood.<br/>Stiles gave him a weak smile.<br/>"Sadly no." In fact, he'd made a huge mistake choosing the partners he did, but beggars couldn't be choosers apparently. “I guess I'll have to keep on looking.”<br/>“With who? You've gone through the town's eligible shifters, most of the witches, the few warlocks, and don't even get me started on the Centaurs.”<br/>“I'll have you know, Centaurian sex is a very beautiful thing -”<br/>“No,” Scott interrupted frantically, “I really didn't want to get started on the Centaurs! I have no need to figure out the mechanics of interspecies sex with half-horsemen.”<br/>“Well, they're definitely hung like horses.”<br/>The look on Scott's face was totally worth the harsh slap of wet rag to the cheeks.</p><p>(Or the one where Stiles is a mage who is looking for his Anchor in all the wrong places).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I have no words to defend myself other than I've had a very weird work schedule and this is what my mind comes up with at 3 AM.

"I need a Purple Nurple."

"It's only for dire emergencies and being requested to report to the High Council doesn't count."

"It does when said request is really a demand to attend a convocation.

A small shot glass filled with smoky purple liquid is immediately placed in front of him. A pale shaky hand reaches out, grasps the glass, and brings it to red lips.

"Here's to drinking the fish."

"I don't think that means what you think it means."

A thin shoulder shrugs beneath folds of black material. "Means something, otherwise humans wouldn't say it."

"Humans say a bunch of weird things, Stiles. Doesn't mean you should emulate them."

"True. Down the hatch!"

The bartender watches as his short-haired friend chokes and gags on the drink before slumping against his chair.

"Feel better?"

"Nope, 'cause I'm still conscious."

"So..." the bartender tries for nonchalance, wiping at a nonexistent wet spot, but Stiles has known him for years and can see the tension riding his spine and rippling under his skin as he obviously fights the change. "Why're you being called?"

"Not because of the Escapade that Shall Not Be Named, Scott."

They grin at one another as memories of that particular evening flash through both their minds. Scott ruffles his dark hair where he received the hard lump, which never disappeared despite his accelerated healing.

"What did you do?"

Stiles' thunks his head on the solid oak bar, his "ow" muted by the wood.

"That's not an answer, dude."

Amber colored eyes peek upward as Stiles slowly slinks to half-laying across the bar, his head pillowed on his arm as his finger mindlessly traces a pattern Scott doesn't recognize.  "I may or may not have indirectly not on purpose ignored an order to desist pursuing a particular branch of magic."

"Dude!"

"I had to."

"Dude."

"She was cute."

"Dude."

"It was only the one time."

"Duuuudddeeee."

"Okay, I lied. It was a few times with a few...um...participants."

Scott stares at him, mouth half-open in shock.

"What? A mage must test the waters to find the best Anchor."

"An orgy is not _testing the waters_ , Stiles. An orgy is an orgy is an orgy."

Stiles draws the hood of his cloak over his head to block out the look on his friend's face. Unlike WolfyMcJudgerstein over there, he isn't physically able to sniff out the perfect person for him.

"Sex magic is still magic, Scott. I just needed to make sure my Anchor could reach me through mind, body, and spirit."

"And did...they?" Scott reached across the wood separating them and pushed back the hood.

Stiles gave him a weak smile.

"Sadly no." In fact, he'd made a huge mistake choosing the partners he did, but beggars couldn't be choosers apparently. “I guess I'll have to keep on looking.”

“With who? You've gone through the town's eligible shifters, most of the witches, the few warlocks, and don't even get me started on the Centaurs.”

“I'll have you know, Centaurian sex is a very beautiful thing -”

“No,” Scott interrupted frantically, “I really didn't want to get started on the Centaurs! I have no need to figure out the mechanics of interspecies sex with half-horsemen.”

“Well, they're definitely hung like horses.”

The look on Scott's face was totally worth the harsh slap of wet rag to the cheeks.

Unfortunately, that is the last moment of levity for Stiles because soon after a small air rift opens and a tail feather of a Golden Phoenix floats into his lap, signaling the Council's impatience at his procrastination.

Sighing, Stiles stands and flips a silver coin to Scott. The young shifter catches it handily, but bites it as if to make sure it is real.

“Where's the trust? I wouldn't stiff you.”

“'Cause you'd never use a little glamoring to make something appear as something else.”

“One time, Scott. _One_ time. Let it go!”

“That _one time_ landed me in Detention, Stiles. With Magister Harris!”

Stiles rolls his eyes. “You met your mate there though didn't you? You should be thanking me.”

“I do by letting you drink here despite the Pack Master banning you.”

“Hey, the ban is totally unfair since I paid for the damages!”

“Sure, for the Hydra and the Ifrit, but what about the dimensional tear in the Men's room?”

Stiles hunches into his cloak a little at the reminder. It wasn't his fault his control of Air magic was a little shaky.  
  
“It took four Masters to harness the maelstrom long enough to seal it!”

It was _not_ a good time to be him after that stunt. In his defense though, he wasn't the dumb caster who decided to defend his girlfriend's honor – which, she was totally the one who came onto Stiles not the other way around – by summoning opposing Elementals and thinking they wouldn't expend energy against one _another_ instead of the mage's target. Fire and Water are opposite ends of the spectrum for a reason. Stiles was just trying to help by tapping into the Plane of Air; he just tapped a little _too_ hard. If it hadn't been opened in the middle of a bar with potential of sucking in a good portion of the town's population and dispersing them to universes unknown, he would've been given a pat on the back for his spell.

“You think Trix was serious about nixing my presence for a century?”

“You're lucky it wasn't for longer.”

Stiles nods reluctantly in agreement, knowing it was only Scott's influence that kept him from being thrown from the Home Territory all together.

The chime of Elven bells interrupts them and Scott makes a shooing gesture.

“Dude, leave before they get _really_ testy.”

Tapping the edge of the feather against the edge of a table – which looks really soft but is one of the toughest materials known to the magic world – and Stiles felt a pulling sensation in the pit of his stomach.

He hates this part.

When he next opens his eyes, a little dizzy and really nauseous, he is no longer in Last Call, but a cold barren stonework room void of any furniture or artwork. There are six men standing in a half-moon circle before him, each wearing robes the color of the Planar Power they represent.

“Thou so named Stiles hast been summoned to stand before thy High Council -”

Stiles normally wouldn't dream of interrupting the Herald, a small goblin standing off to the side, but mixing Purple Nurples with abrupt transportation magic is always a Bad Idea (and yes he capitalizes it in his head) because he's doubled over, showing the mages' council exactly what he was doing in the half hour before appearing.

“Yech Stiles, that's disgusting. I can see you're taking this Convocation seriously.”

The booming voice is, unfortunately, no longer the Herald but the Arch Mage, also known as “Father mine.” If his _father_ is present then he's really fucked, to use another quaint human idiom.

Stiles hastily waves a scrubbing spell over his mess and stands up as respectfully as he can.

“Uh, I still haven't acclimated to Phoenix Flight.”

“And it has nothing to do with the concoction you and Scott created made of the most disgusting ingredients known to Magekind?”

He holds in a groan, barely, and remembers again why it's never good to attempt to pull one over on one's father when he has eyes everywhere. Literally in some cases, Stiles mentally winces, thinking about the time with the saucy mermaid in the cove.

“Ahem, that's neither here nor there. So, how may I serve you?”

There is a tightening of skin around several of the eyes boring into him, but Stiles has never sweated the lengthy and formal small stuff; unless he's being formally charged with crimes against magic or nature or Magekind, there's no need to supplicate to them.

“It has come to this Council's attention that you've been left to your own devices too long and your abilities are in danger of atrophying. We have chosen to honor you with this quest.”

“If this is about the dryads, they were willing to donate their energy to the cause.”

“Stiles -”

“And I had nothing to do with the Barrow Hound let loose in the town square, even if I did find it funny. I swear I don't know who's responsible for that one.”

“Stiles-”

“Okay, the hound wasn't me, but I could've had a hand in the flock of harpies. There's a good reason -”

A swirl of white and blue magic surrounds him, an invisible hand clamping around his mouth and stopping his word flow.

The Arch Mage shakes his head in exasperation, long silvery blond locks wisping against the collar of his stark white ceremonial robe. Stiles blinks, suddenly registering the finery each Master wore. Apparently there is something _more_ going on than recitation of his crimes – and yes, it was him confessing but it is easier to give up the lesser infractions instead of waiting for the Sword of Damocles to fall (totally a thing, though how the human philosopher had not only learned of the tale but then screwed up the details something fierce is something of a head scratcher).

“Regardless of the extracurricular activities you've indulged in – and yes, I know about the nymphs at the waterfall as well – this isn't the reason why we've sent for you. Master Gold.”

The Planar Fire Master steps forward, though still a little behind the Arch Mage, and holds out a rolled up scroll of vellum. Stiles doesn't need to touch it to sense the heavy magics upon it; he gingerly grasps it and feels the skin on his fingertips heating up. He wants to glare at the fire mage, but refrains because he realizes it isn't the usual pettiness at play here.

“And I'm here because...” Stiles mumbles beneath the gag spell, knowing by his father's pursed lips he understands.

“War brews again and it threatens to disrupt the equilibrium.”

And by that his father means, _because I said so_.

Stiles unrolls the vellum and quickly scans the contents. It seems three hundred years ago humans were expanding westward in search of new lands to build their cities and towns. Unfortunately there were shifters already living in the territory they attempted to claim and they didn't take kindly to these trespassers. At this point in history, mortals of the New World were unaware of supernatural creatures and this was a very aggressive introduction. After a long and exhaustive war – with both sides counting heavy losses - a peace accord was struck between the two factions. There was some sort of trickery and instead of sticking to the agreement, the shifters were summarily rounded up and sent to live on something called “reservations,” leaving the humans to take over.

Over the next few generations, several species of shifters were decimated by disease, hunger, and crowding until only the Were population – wolves, cats, and bears – were left and they managed to wrangle a new deal which allowed them to return to their former home territories under the condition they would be monitored by a human coalition. Fast forward three hundred years and the fragile peace, which was still upheld by the human government, was threatening to collapse under the weight of political inertia and increasingly violent interactions between the human coalition and the shifters.

While Stiles is intrigued by this view into human history, he's still confused by his involvement. Magekind aren't often called upon to mediate because it is a little like bringing a gun to a knife fight: complete and utter overkill. He pointedly points at his mouth, waiting for speech to return. The Arch Mage sighs deeply, but waves a hand releasing him.

“What you hold is the reason for the Convocation. We struck a pact with a Witchling many Turns ago to help defend her domain.” The Arch Mage turns his eyes to the side, a sure sign of mortal passing. “Her descendant has claimed her right.”

For a mortal to wrest an agreement from a mage was unheard of simply because it was hard to find their kind if they didn't want to be found; it was one of many reasons why they were called the “Hidden Folk,” not to be confused with the “Fair Folk,” or the elves, a common misconception by humans.

“Are you talking “We the council” or the royal We?”

The Arch Mage manages not to roll his eyes by sheer dint of will and ignores the (totally valid) question.

“Alan Deaton, Witch of the Silver Branch, has requested aid against the human coalition who police his land. There have been several incursions against the local werewolf family he's bonded to, including attempted assassination through a house fire with all members, including children, trapped inside.”

The horror on the Arch Mage's face, and the Masters surrounding him, is genuine. Children are a rare blessing among Magekind and it is incomprehensible to them as to why anyone would harm a child, much less attempt murder, regardless of race or reason.

Stiles understands his purpose now. “I'm to protect the witch and his shifters.”

“ _Protect_ ,” the Arch Mage stresses, “not use this as an opportunity to find an Anchor. Is that understood?”

Resentment burns beneath his outward obeisance because he's nearing his hundredth birthday and is the only one among his Circle not to find one. It is a little embarrassing as everyone knows he is somewhat lacking despite the raw planar energy he's able to tap. He cannot reach his full potential without a partner to keep him in the _now_ so he doesn't get lost in the ether; sexual comparability isn't a requirement, but he had the example of his parents' pairing in his formative years and he yearns to replicate it.

“How long will I be there?”

“There was no set time limit attached to the promise, so you'll remain until your task is completed.”

In other words, capricious wild magic is in control of his destiny. Awesome.

“Where am I staying?”

“The witch will provide.”

“When do I leave?”

“Now,” the Arch Mage says, a small smirk playing around his lips.

“This _is_ a punishment.”

“If you desire to look at it that way, then yes.” The fond look directed at him negates the words. Both of them know he's going because he's his father's son and will do what is right. It's just easier to pretend.

Stiles harumphs, folding his arms into his black robes. “I want it recorded I'm agreeing to go under duress.”

“So it is noted, so it is written,” the Herald intones from his corner, his sonorous voice at odds with his small body. The Arch Mage dismisses him then as his duty to witness the Convocation has ended with Stiles' reluctant agreement.

The Masters of Earth, Air, Fire, and Water spread out in a tight square formation and the Arch Mage moves until he's three steps outside the box shape, facing Stiles. Master of Life mirrors his father and positions himself at the same exact point behind Stiles, leaving the young mage as the center.

Stiles draws in a small breath to calm himself as they prepare to create a portal. In the normal course of things Magekind use Wizard Stones or Doors, small pockets of stable planar energy kept open between dimensions, which allow travel between cities or lands as easy as stepping across a threshold. Some mages are powerful enough to forgo either of these and key magical items like the Phoenix feather to specific locations, as the Arch Mage had done earlier for Stiles.

Portals, on the other hand, are holes ripped through the planes and unstable by their very natures. It requires the concentrated power of the Planar Masters in order to keep an opening long enough for someone to pass through to their intended destination; if even one hesitates or loses their grip, the portal will snap shut and the traveler could be potentially lost forever (if not ripped to shreds by planar energy).

No pressure really.

Reality shivers and buckles around him as the layers of time and dimension are peeled away, showing both the room he's standing in and a strange metal-filled one he's never seen before. He is distracted from his observation of twinned rooms when he feels a deep vibration in his bones followed by a distinctive humming sound that grows louder and louder until the roar of magic pierces his ear drums and he blacks out from the pain.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Derek has a lot of (wolf)man pain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is a departure from the first chapter - when I originally wrote it, I debated whether or not to include it because it is such a radical change, but then I figured it could be as much a character study of Derek as the first is of Stiles (meaning very superficial). I do try to write subtext and use rich metaphors and expound in lovely rhetoric, but at 4:00 AM (the time I jotted it down) doesn't really lend to such introspection, so this is what you get instead. Enjoy!

“Derek, we need to discuss this!”

 

“No Laura, _we_ don't.”

 

“You don't think it's important for me to know you're leaving your Home Territory for that...that... _cat?”_

 

Derek sighs deeply, turning to face his older sister. He knows this day was coming and tried to avoid it, but his mother wasn't too happy with his decision to leave to a new territory, so naturally she'd set Laura on him.

 

“The “cat” has a name: Daniel. Use it.”

 

“You mean dirty-double dealing, brother stealing gigolo!”

 

Derek grabs his sister, smaller by five inches, but no less dangerous because of it, and pulls her into his chest and quickly shuffles her around the corner before slamming her into the brick wall with relish despite knowing she's letting him have the upper hand. Laura had tried to corner him at the station, but Sally the receptionist had given him a head's up so he'd gone into Beacon Hills proper, somehow thinking she would avoid a public scene. Obviously he was wrong.

 

He quickly scents the alley between the hardware store and the post office, content when the usual smells of mold, decaying body of some small rodent, and wolf wafts to his sensitive nose.

 

“I know you're not happy, nor is Mom, about me taking the job in LA, but this is a big deal. I will never be more than Deputy Hale here and I have a chance to make it in the city. Yes, Daniel is also a factor, but not the main one.”

 

He doesn't bother adding he's tired of being a dirty Hale wolf in the eyes of the local hunters and hopes to get lost in the relative anonymity of the metropolitan area. Talia Hale, Alpha and mother, was from the generation of shifters who were released from the reservations and sent back to their original territories, so she can't conceive of anyone _wanting_ to leave. For her, Beacon Hills is the end all be all of her world and nothing or no one will ever take it away from her again.

 

Of the six cubs she bore, only Derek ever showed any inclinations of needing to find out what the world offered outside the forested hills and valleys of his birth place. He can't remember a time when he didn't have the gut feeling telling him he was destined for more and needed to be somewhere else. He's nearly twenty-five and hasn't traveled any further than fifty miles in his life, so this opportunity is a godsend and he'd be a fool not to grab at it.

 

And yes, he does have some misgivings about taking Daniel with him since their relationship isn't exactly stable, but he's promised him they'd go away from this for the past five years, so he can't exactly back out of it. Even if a large part of him really _really_ wants to; he's eager to be shed of everything that ties him to Beacon Hills.

 

Laura stares up at him, her golden eyes fading back into their usual blue-green hue, and shakes her head at him with a strange look on her face. Derek stops straining against her greater strength and tries to parse the emotions she's feeling: there's a trace of pity, true, but most of it is sorrow.

 

Prickles of cold wash over Derek's skin, and if he had less control, his dread could've sent him into a spontaneous shift.

 

“What do you know?” His arm comes up against her seemingly delicate throat and he presses hard. “What. Do. You. Know?”

 

“Your Visa was denied by OFIT.”

 

OFIT – or the Office of Interstate Travel - was established so there would be a tracking system in place because of the many concerns about allowing large predatory supernatural species to settle among humans, especially ones who were highly mobile nomads with large ranges prior to being confined on government tracts. Laws were passed in conjunction requiring all shifters to be registered by their Home Territory's local Coalition and be given special licenses which immediately identified them as _other_. The license also act as a passport; though they are given free rein within their own territories, they have to apply to leave to a new city or state. Transfers are considered short term, while Visas are permanent. Visas are considerably harder to get because there were only three reasons to apply for one: marriage, death of a parent or guardian, or to fill civic responsibilities. There were exceptions to the rules, of course, but it took a truly determined individual to sift through the legalese and fine print to find the loopholes.

 

Derek filled out his Visa with the expectation that mentioning a job offer as a cop for the LAPD coupled with the implication of an impending engagement to Daniel, whose primary pride resides in Los Angeles County, would be enough to have it stamped through. It would be considerably easier if Derek himself had family or even family of family in the area because he could've worked _towards_ a permanent Visa, but Hales are hill-shifters and rarely accept cityfolk into the pack.

 

His sister's words shatter that hope and any remaining hopes about ever escaping Beacon Hills. He can't apply for a new Visa for another five years, and he can forget about a Transfer since no employer is going to want to put in time and training on an employee they'll lose sooner rather than later to the imposed term limit.

 

“Derry,” she whispers, her hand resting gently against his clean-shaven cheek. “Is it really so bad to stay Home with us?”

 

Derek wrenches himself away from Laura's gentle touch, his wolf rising to the fore at his emotional turmoil. He can't bear the feel of _pack_ when its both the noose and the net for him; something great waits out _there_ for him and he's never going to find it. Never cure the restlessness biting at his tail and urging his paws to _run run run_ until the only sound he hears is the wind whistling at his back.

 

“I _can't_ bear it here,” he whispers, knowing she'll hear it.

 

Laura tries to fold him into her arms as she did when he was a cub, but he steps too far from her reach and turns his back. He hasn't shifted yet, but the emotional moment is pushing the change; yet another reason marking him different than his siblings, hell even his family. Unlike the other Hales, Derek is more at home in his four-legged form than two and can stay shifted without fear of losing himself to instinct. It's as if, his mother jokes, he had to learn to be man instead of wolf.

 

“If Daniel _really_ cares for you -”

 

He slashes a hand through the air, cutting off the rest. “We both know he's going back to his pride regardless. Feelings have nothing to do with it.”

 

There is no response nor did he expect any. Hard to argue with the truth.

 

He is pathetically grateful when his phone rings, breaking the awful tension. Laura loves him, he knows this well, but it's a suffocating love filled with expectations and strings attached.

 

“Hale.”

 

“ _Derek? It's Richard. There's been a disturbance at the vet office and apparently set all the animals to quite a ruckus until the surrounding businesses complained. I tried phoning Deaton, but he's not responding. Can you check it out?”_

 

Tension melts from his large-boned frame as his public persona slips over the nerve-raw wolf. “Sure. Be there in ten.” He spins around to stare at his sister again. She's still leaning against the wall, her tanned arms crossed in front of her chest, looking every inch the Alpha-in-training she is; if her dark hair was shoulder-length instead of hanging to her elbows, she'd be an exact replica of their mother during one of her infamous “talks.”

 

“Saved by the bell,” Laura smirks, her mouth smiling though her eyes aren't. Derek sighs deeply because he knows he can't leave it like this. She was trying to help because she is his big sister and can't ever stay out of his business.

 

“I'll come by the house tonight and see Mom, okay? I promise.”

 

Her posture softens a bit and she nods. His need to leave won't change, but he can quit his stand-offish behavior. Besides, the Pack won and he'll be stuck here.

 

By the time he makes it to Deaton's place, fifteen minutes doing a full-out run, his sorrow and anger are pushed to the back of his mind. Part of it is his natural reticence about allowing others to know his personal business, but it's also due to the witch who's property he's about to visit.

 

Deaton is a Silver Branch Crafter, a witch who crafts wards for protection, and his office is guarded by them. Anyone crossing into his domain with negative emotions or intentions will set them off; Derek is wary enough to always mind his Ps and Qs just in case the wards can't tell the difference between anger towards others versus self-directed anger.

 

The afternoon sun is low in the sky when he finishes his quick perimeter sweep, nose and ears carefully attuned to anything out of the ordinary. As the only witch in a town of shifters, Deaton is on the patrol route for the Hale Sentinels, and Derek always makes sure to carefully mark the boundaries warning away any rogue shifters. His scent markers are slightly faded, but it's normal since it's been a week since he's been here, and the only new scent he picks up on is his brother David.

 

Shrugging, Derek sends a quick text back to HQ letting them know outside seems okay and he's going inside to check. The buzzing of a responding text is almost immediate, asking if he needs backup. Derek huffs a little, then sends “No,” and tucks the cell back into his pocket.

 

Crossing the vacant parking lot, which isn't strange on a Friday afternoon, Derek draws the Tazer hooked to his utility belt and cautiously approaches the front door. He peers through the glass windows on either side, but can't see anything other than the empty waiting room. It's a little strange for Martha, Deaton's receptionist to be absent from her desk, but she could always be at lunch.

 

He eases the door open, slowly enough so the top won't knock the bell hung over the frame, and slips inside. His ears elongate until they're large and furry, twitching to hear any sound and Derek is discomfited by the fact he can't hear _anything_ , not even the usual sounds of the various sick animals Deaton usually has on hand. He's almost to the inner door leading to the rooms in the back before he realizes the usual shivery feeling of magic passing over him is absent as well.

 

Alarmed for the first time, Derek debates about shifting fully or not. There could be a perfectly valid reason for Deaton's wards to be down, though he couldn't really think of any off the top of his head. Secondly, the noise complaint about the animals had come in less than an hour ago, and yet it sounded as if the building was completely deserted now. He'd been here enough times in the past to know that while Deaton could settle most of the sick pets down, there was always one or two dogs who held out out of sheer stubbornness.

 

A faint noise towards the back of the building spurs him into efficiently stripping himself of his gear and uniform as he opts for his half-form since he'll need use of opposable thumbs. He bends low as thick fur the color of midnight sprout along his face and arms, muscle and bone increasing in size and density until he resembles a hulked out version of himself. Olfactory and visual senses are increased tenfold and suddenly the stink of _stranger_ and _magic_ is so thick in the still air, Derek can't understand why he couldn't smell it before. Shaking his shaggy head, he pushes the swinging door into the inner sanctum, his clawed feet silent on the chilly tile.

 

Muted sound gradually becomes clearer as he nears the last door of the hallway, which leads to Deaton's private office. The witch doesn't sound distressed, but the pack has come to the conclusion it would take the start of a Zombie Apocalypse to ruffle the man, and even then they aren't sure it would do the trick. Derek pushes down any hesitation when he reaches the solid oak door and nearly tears the door off the hinges, six inch fangs bared in an outraged snarl.

 

The scene inside the office is one of quiet companionship, a pot of some hot liquid (heated steam curls from the lip of the spout) with two cups perching almost daintily on the desk, Deaton's fingers steepled as he contemplates his guest. He doesn't turn from the cowed boy seated across from him, and Derek feels foolish for his wolfed out appearance, especially when warm eyes rise to him with startled fear.

 

“Welcome Derek, we've been waiting for you.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles happens.

Stiles takes one look at the large Were standing in the doorway and says _Gimme_.

Fortunately for his embarrassment, he didn’t say it out loud.

He thinks.

He hopes.

Peeking at the Silver Witch, he notes the guy isn’t staring at him in horror, and the Were isn’t growling so Stiles silently breathes a sigh of relief.

This time Stiles clears his mind of sex - hot dirty wet, no bad bad Mage - and looks at the wolf, seeing streaks of amber through his naturally blue aura.

Damn his luck. The first time in a while he’s found someone he thinks might be Anchor material - without testing him either! - and the guy’s already mated.

Just his damnable luck. Again.

Petulantly he wants to erase the Were’s mate, but he knows it’s not polite and he’s supposed to be polite, not start another Pack War (the first wasn’t his fault, damnit! How could he know she was the pack-leader’s daughter?), so Stiles picks up the now lukewarm tea in his hand and tries to think pure thoughts as he sips.

“I told the Emissary that I couldn’t discuss the issue without a pack member present, so I’m glad you’re here.” The witch gives a small chuckle. “Though I’m not surprised its you, since I’m sure the office called about the abrupt disturbance of planar energies.”

The wolf, still silent in the doorway, seems to shake himself and his furriness melts away until pale humanoid skin reappears.

Lovely, lickable skin.

“Emissary?”

Stiles supposes he really should be presentable to _someone_ since his first introduction to the witch consisted of him popping into the room and promptly vomiting over the man’s shoes - what? Translocation spells always makes him sick, regardless of Purple Nurples - so he gently places the cup back on the edge of the lovely desk and stands.

His robes are a little messy, so he quickly hand waves them straight and then looks carefully at the wolf. He isn’t certain of the male’s rank in his pack and knows getting it wrong can be disastrous as Weres are notorious for being sticklers of protocol and diplomacy. Stiles hadn’t expected meeting one so quickly, yet he was trained for this exact sort of situation, so he tilts his head a quarter of an inch, never letting his eyes falter from the other’s face.

“I am the Emissary of the Arch Magus of the Nine Thrones come to the aid of the Silver Branch Witch known to all as Alan Deaton.”

“Oh, you don’t need to be formal with Derek,” the witch instructs cheerfully, standing and coming around the desk. “He’s a Sentinel of the Hale Pack.”

Stiles’ eyes widen with appreciation at the new information. Sentinels are the first wave of defense in case of an attack, trained since first shift how to protect their packs. They are larger, quicker to heal, more aggressive, and closer to their animal natures than other Weres.

In times past, long before the Weres fought for autonomy, Magekind used wolves and cats as Soul Guards because of their abilities, and some higher ranked Masters still did, though the exchange was closer to service instead of slavery.

Thus informed, Stiles bows with the correct flourish, thankful he hasn’t made too much of a fool of himself and denied the male his proper due.

“May I have your name?”

“Uh, Derek. Derek Hale.”

Stiles beams at the Sentinel, gladdened he’s entrusted with his name.

“You willnt be able to pronounce my name -” which is true of anyone who isn’t Magekind and doesn’t speak their language - “so you may call me Stiles.”

Courtesies exchanged, Stiles reseats himself and stares expectantly at Alan Deaton.

The witch looks at him thoughtfully in return before inviting Derek Hale further into the office. The wolf politely declines a cup of tea and settles against the opposite wall, hands tucked beneath his armpits. Stiles is intensely aware of him, yet ignores the heat gathering along his skin.

He hasn’t had a magical reaction this strong in a while, but the wolf has a mate, he sternly reminds himself again, so it won’t go anywhere. Besides, if his father learned of him Anchor-baiting, he might actually end up in the Pit of Nowhere for a century’s term. It is the Arch Mage’s favorite punishment to those who annoy him sufficiently, and son or no, Stiles is treading dangerously close to the edge of his patience.

“We’ve tried several different avenues for the government to step in and take control, but nothing has worked. The local Coalition is usually tolerant of the packs, but recently there was a shakeup in management and the newest leader is calling for more stringent control of the area.”

Stiles politely listens even as he fights a jaw-cracking yawn. Maybe Scott and his father are right about him easing back on finding his match. He really doesn’t need one _right now_ as he is still proficient in his magic; so what if he hasn’t tapped into his full potential? He’s still plenty powerful and once this assignment is over, he can return to honing his craft. Alone.

“He doesn’t care, Alan,” the wolf interjects, interrupting the witch’s run down of the problems. “I don’t know why you requested outside help.”

“Because the fire could’ve killed the pack and no one is willing to do anything!”

Stiles eases against the back of his chair so he can view both Alan Deaton and Derek Hale. The wolf is ill-at-ease and trying to hide it, while his counterpart is intensely frustrated and fairly crackling with power.

“I do care, insomuch as the contract between the Silver Branch and Magekind extends.” He opts for honesty, despite his ability to fool even a Were’s senses. “I just needed to learn who I’m supposed to catapult into the outersphere and who I’m supposed to spare.”

Stiles cocks his head. “That is why you called upon the agreement, is it not Alan Deaton?”

“Clarify?”

It is the Hale’s Sentinel, not Derek Hale, questioning him.

“By the binding of wild magic, I am to protect the interests of the Silver Branch and its allies.” Stiles studies their faces and still sees incomprehension. “You wanted vengeance, so I will enact it for you."

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Derek doesn't understand until he does.

Derek is infamous in the pack for his ability to maintain a stony facade during the best and worst of times.

Oh, the first female Hale Omega in forty years. _Stoic look._

He discovers his Moon-partner curled around his bitterest enemy. _Blank stare_. 

Hearing a mage (an honest to fucking goodness Mage!) baldly state he was an instrument of revenge.

Well, even Derek cracked sometimes.

He gingerly pushed his mouth closed with a clawed finger and hoped Deaton hadn't noticed his lapse.

Deaton hadn't, probably because his own jaw sagged to his chest. Guess something short of a Zombie Apocalypse  _would_ startle the man.

"Veng-veng-"

"The word you're looking for is vengeance," Stiles (and what an odd name) cheerfully supplies, raising the teacups to his lips again. "Why else would you want a mage?" There was honest confusion in his question.

The witch squirmed a little, his eyes shifting away from the other magical. "I supposed you would lend credence to my complaint and help me discover evidence."

Dark brows fold into a quizzical frown. Derek knows the mage is probably older than he looks - magicals don't age at the same rate as supernatural creatures or mortals - but his expression makes him look barely sixteen. 

"I could do that, I suppose," came the doubtful response. "Except, well, I am a Tri-fold Elementalist."

Derek is the youngest Sentinel in his pack, newly made, and he doesn't have the same sort of knowledge the others have, otherwise he might understand what Stiles meant.

"What does that mean?"

Derek blinks in surprise at his own temerity. He doesn't usually speak out of turn or much at all really.

Warm amber eyes slide towards him and he rocks back against the wall, absurdly grateful for its bulk. A blinding smile breaks across the smooth face as the mage straightens in his seat with pride. Derek doesn't need to use his senses to understand  _that_.

"Succinctly put, I'm a War Mage. You want someone put down, you call upon me."

Deaton clears his throat nervously - another emotion Derek would never apply to the man prior to this. At the very least, regardless of this meeting's outcome, Derek could conclusively prove the witch wasn't a cyborg as the pack often speculated. 

"Violence isn't the answer I was exactly hoping for, especially as it wouldn't take much for the Coalition to come down hard on the Hale Pack."

"They hate us," Derek said flatly.

"Hate is such a strong word."

"Hate is the right word. They're bigoted righteous  _hunters_ who abuse the laws."

The fury coiling in his gut is an old friend and Derek blows out a silent breath as he mentally tried to suppress his emotions behind a large steel barrier. It was an image he'd learned as an adolescent when his sentinel senses were overwhelming him at the onset of puberty. Steel was the strongest material he could envision to contain the depth of his emotional reactions - there was a reason he was sentinel after all. 

Stiles cockd his head and stares him thoughtfully, his eyes seemingly examining his very soul. Derek shifts restlessly, disliking the idea, and Stiles seems to understand that as well because he shiftshis focus back to Deaton, though Derek is positive the  _war mage_ still watches him out of the corner of his eye.

"You shouldn't be worried, Crafter. If violence is not the answer you seek, I am bound to help you as you need."

There is a slight bitter emphasis on the word "bound," and Derek suddenly wonders if Stiles was truly here on his own behest. He did seem  _young_ to be sent as an Emissary.

Deaton smiles then, his sour distress fading into sharp citrusy relief. Derek doesn't wrinkle his nose but it's a close call. 

"I accept your service," the crafter intones, "Upon the behalf of the Silver Branch and Hale Pack."

"Awesome!" Stiles cheerfully asserts before turning to Derek, ignoring Deaton's bewilderment. "So, when can I meet your pack? I should probably meet the people I'm supposed to protect, doncha think?"

Derek shakes his balefully as he tries to align the stories he grew up hearing about Magekind with the reality and finds the dichotomy very confusing. His wolf turns his head away and hides his face beneath both paws.

"Um, yes?" His Alpha would cuff him upside the head for the less than graceful acceptance, but she wasn't here staring at the  _war mage_ (and no, repeating it didn't make it any more real).

So that's how Derek finds himself driving Stiles up the main driveway towards his family's compound. The dogs are barking excitedly, spreading the word that someone beloved is coming home, though any wolf worth their ears would be able to tell five miles ago who exactly was coming just by the sound of the vehicle they're driving.

Laura opens the front door and Mimsy and Pimsy explode into the front yard, dancing excitedly around the driver's door until Derek hops out. He gently pets their heads and sternly tells them to behave in front of strangers before realizing Stiles is still in the truck. He looks up and sees Stiles pressed against the driver's side window, eyes warily watching the Irish wolfhounds. Derek mimes rolling down the window and heaves an exasperated sigh when he realizes Stiles doesn't understand the motion. He solves the issue by opening the door and asking, "Why didn't you get out?"

"While I appreciate transport didn't leave me sick, I didn't wish to impede upon your reunion with your family."

Derek looks at the dogs and then the war mage. "Family?"

Stiles stares back at him. "I assumed by the enthusiastic greeting, it was one of your wolven brethren."

"Uh, sure. These are my sisters, Mimsy and Pimsy."

Stiles gathers himself primly before stepping from the truck, his ridiculous robe fluttering in the afternoon breeze. He holds up a hand and bends his neck as he introduces himself in a string of unintelligible sounds swiftly followed by English, or his variation of it at any rate. "I am -"

Derek quickly interrupts before he can go on about the Emissary this and Arch Magus that. "Stiles. His name is Stiles."

The mage throws him a dirty look, but gamely follows his lead even if he isn't fully aware of the minor prank Derek is playing. "Yes, you may call me Stiles. May I call you Mimsy and Pimsy or shall I simply refer to you by your family name?"

By this point, Derek's _real_ sisters are drawn out by the spectacle of Stiles addressing the dogs so politely and they stand next to him, female copies of him down to the black hair and thick eyebrows. "Who's the space case and why is talking to our dogs?" Cora asks with the ennui of a thirteen year old girl. Her twin Nora snickers into her hand and peeks at Stiles through ridiculously long eyelashes.

Stiles turns and bestows a large smile upon them as well. "Ah, well met, my fine young ladies."

"Ladies?"

"Who talks like that?"

"I am the Emissary -"

Stiles makes an abrupt "erk" sound when Derek tires of this game and just grabs him to tow him along. "Cora, Nora, take Mims and Pims for a walk."

"Ooooh we know what that means!"

"Something scandalous!"

"What's in it for us?"  _Cora_

"I want to know why you brought dweebazoid here," _Nora_.

"I leave you for five minutes and you bring a magical to the house? You really want to leave us that badly?" _Laura_.

Derek halts in his mindless march forward, arrested by Laura's genuine anguish. He looks at Stiles and then up at his sister who stands on the front porch, her arms wrapped around her protectively. Regardless of how much she irritates the hell out of him, he would never purposefully hurt her.

"Uh no, he kinda, brought himself? He's here to present to Mom and Pops."

Laura's emotional hackles lie down at the news and interest brightens her dark eyes. "So, who is he again?"

"Wait, those are pets? You had me introduce myself to your _pets_?" _Stiles_.

Derek's laughter surprises them all as he suddenly is overwhelmed with gut-busting hilarity at the whole situation.

"Laura, the Emissary of the Ninth Level of Hell -" Derek gasps out.

"No, it's the Emissary of the Arch Magus of the Nine Thrones." Stiles actually stamps his foot a little, though he's wearing a slipper with the end curled up so it takes away a little from his indignation, and it spurs Derek to even higher levels of laughter.

"Wait, what in Nemeton's name is magekind doing here?"

Of _course_ Laura would know what Stiles' titles meant.

Derek collapses on the first step and waves a hand towards the mage, ignoring his little sisters cackling in the background and Laura looming over him. "I dunno, I don't care, and I'm gonna sit here until the world makes sense again."


End file.
